


The Rules Of Engagement

by liquidmeasure



Category: One Direction (Band)
Genre: Airports, Best Friends, Cheating, Coming of Age, Drinking, First Time, Infidelity, Like Lots, M/M, Pining, Recreational Drug Use, Sad Harry, Sad Zayn, Teen Angst, everyone is sad, perrie is ok though, zarry - Freeform
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-03-14
Updated: 2015-03-14
Packaged: 2018-03-14 23:47:04
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 12,554
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3430019
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/liquidmeasure/pseuds/liquidmeasure
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>
  <i>Zayn is slouched down in a seat near the boarding counter, a book open on his lap. Harry can see the dark expanse of the tarmac through the window behind him. The black sky and the blinking lights of the runway and the planes gliding back and forth. The airport is quiet, this late at night. The sounds seem all muffled and soft. Harry wonders if Zayn had the same idea, flying out late. Giving himself a buffer. He always needed that sort of thing—more than Harry, really. Zayn looks up and sees Harry and for a moment his face falls, then he course corrects. He smiles, warm and welcoming. </i>
</p><p>  <i>“Wow. Hey. Fancy meeting you here.”</i></p><p> <br/><b>For the Prompt:</b> Airport AU...Zayn and Harry's flights are both late and they are both frustrated and they find comfort in the company of each other. (I maybe played fast and loose with the definition of "comfort" but I hope you like it!!)</p><p>My amazing BFF made a mix to go along with this story, so if you really want to amplify the feels, head over <a href="http://8tracks.com/shhnotyet/the-rules-of-engagment">here</a> to find it.</p>
            </blockquote>





	The Rules Of Engagement

**Author's Note:**

  * For [iammisscullen](https://archiveofourown.org/users/iammisscullen/gifts).



* * *

 

**Now**

 

It was supposed to be a brilliant idea, taking the red-eye, two days later than he should’ve. Extra time to explore the city, to see a few sights. To sample the local flavor. Two days to give himself a buffer. He knew there would be a cadre of people flying in and out of New York on and around the day of Perrie’s graduation. He’s not anti-social, and god knows it was a treat, just seeing everyone--seeing her mum and gran. Hugs and kisses on the cheeks and “my lord you’ve grown right up”s and tugs at his hair and hands tracing the lines of his tattoos. He just knew he would need some time to himself on the way home. Time to collect the parts of him that he’d tucked away in anticipation of this trip. Time to put himself back together.

The cab drops him on the curb outside the arrivals counter and he wrestles with his bags while he tries to pay, tugging his wallet out of the the back pocket of his jeans. They’re tight, much too tight for traveling. The wallet is a pain to retrieve and he makes a mental note for next time. Next time he flies, whenever that might be. Comfortable trousers. Wallet goes in the bag. 

He pays the man, and it’s probably too much, but the bills are confusing and he’s distracted. He feels outside himself. It’s being this far from home maybe, removed from the life he’s built. Seeing Pez, sitting through all 4 hours of the graduation, sweating through his button-up on the lawn at Columbia. Watching her walk across the stage, a smiling be-robed speck, a shock of blonde hair under a square cap. Or it’s the jet lag maybe. He moves through the terminal, checks a bag and steps through the metal detector once, twice, then once more, his pockets emptying gradually, his necklace coming over his head and off, the silver chain pooling on the plastic tray. 

When they’ve let him through, he retrieves his boots and tugs them on, stumbling a little. A girl in a pink peacoat watches him, laughing, as she slips her own feet into canvas espadrilles. Mental note. Sensible shoes. 

He wanders the duty free shops for a while, thinking of Gemma. She’s supplied him with an informal list. Things he should look for. There’s something about airports, she said. They’re like neutral zones. Independent of whatever countries they occupy. No taxes. Anything goes. Harry fingers a scarf in one shop, a Saint Laurent. He wonders what would happen if he stole it. Who he’d answer to if he was caught. He contemplates buying it for a moment, then thinks better of it. It’s not that he can’t afford it—his gig at the law office affords him a certain amount of luxury—it’s just that he’s not an impulse spender. He’s more of a “consider it for a couple months, then wear it til it’s ragged” sort of person. He picks up a couple lipsticks for Gem, double-checking her email and comparing the colour names. They’re all called things like “man-eater” and “double entendre” and he smiles at that. Feels almost like himself again. 

He’d like to find a bathroom. To wash his hands or brush his teeth or maybe just stand there and study his own face in the mirror. Remind himself that he’s a real live person who exists in the world. That he’s Harry Styles, a 24-year old man. But first he’s got to find his gate, so he does, and when he gets there everything becomes very clear—or a lot more muddled—because he can’t avoid it anymore, what’s really got his head all wrecked. What’s made it difficult to recognize himself. 

“Hi.”

Zayn is slouched down in a seat near the boarding counter, a book open on his lap. Harry can see the dark expanse of the tarmac through the window behind him. The black sky and the blinking lights of the runway and the planes gliding back and forth. The airport is quiet, this late at night. The sounds seem all muffled and soft. Harry wonders if Zayn had the same idea, flying out late. Giving himself a buffer. He always needed that sort of thing—more than Harry, really. Zayn looks up and sees Harry and for a moment his face falls, then he course corrects. He smiles, warm and welcoming. 

“Wow. Hey. Fancy meeting you here.”

“Of all the gin joints, right?”

“Huh?”

“Nothing…uh…it’s from a movie.”

Zayn shuts his book and sits up. He angles his head at the seat next to him. 

“Bird over there said there’s gonna be a little delay so like…make yourself at home.”

“Yeah.” Harry drops his bag on the floor. “Alright.”

 

* * *

**Then**

 

The bus is late, so they sit on the stone wall outside the school, side by side. Perrie reads to him from a book she’s meant to finish over the weekend. It’s all gothic and mournful and sad and she’s affecting a dramatic voice for him, trying to make him laugh. 

      “ _Whatever our souls are made of, his and mine are the same; and Linton's is as different as a moonbeam from lightning, or frost from fire._ ” She wrinkles her nose. “It’s rubbish though. She doesn't love him, and she’s going to marry him because it's what's expected. This story is awful. It's like they're all punishing each other and no one's happy."

Harry looks up and sees a boy from a couple classes above them coming out of the building. Louis something. He’s short and thin and smiles like he’s laughing at a joke Harry wouldn’t understand. Harry thinks he’s one of the bad kids. The ones that skateboard in the commons during lunch and look like they might smoke cigarettes and other, more illegal, things. Louis holds the door open behind him when he comes out, followed closely by Zayn. 

Harry recognizes Zayn. They’ve got a class together, because Harry’s a year ahead in maths. Zayn sits in front of him and Harry spends an hour each day listening to their teacher drone on about quadratic equations and exponential growth while Harry studies Zayn’s shoulders. He’s got nice ones. Broad and solid. Harry likes the way his tee shirts stretch over his back. The strange lilt of his accent when the instructor calls on him for an answer. The way he leans his head on his hand and breathes softly while the clock ticks down to 3 pm. 

They come out the door, and Harry is squinting over at them when Zayn turns and meets his gaze. Harry is caught off guard. Zayn waves at him, then tugs at the back of Louis’s shirt. Says something Harry can’t hear. They approach, and Harry’s heart speeds up in his chest. He’s never talked to Zayn before. He’s not sure what’s happening. 

“Hey.”

“Uh…hi.”

Perrie lowers her book to her lap and peers at the two of them quizzically, like she’s not sure she approves of them. Louis grins back. Zayn doesn’t seem to notice. He tilts his head at Harry.

“We’ve got maths together, yeah?”

Harry nods. “Yeah.”

“Harry, right?”

Harry is taken aback. 

“Uh…yeah.”

“I’m Zayn, this is Louis.”

“I’m Perrie.”

Perrie sticks her hand out and Zayn smiles over at her. Shakes it firmly. 

“Pleasure.” He turns back to Harry. “Your bus is late.”

“Yeah.”

“You need a ride? We’ve got a car.”

Louis rolls his eyes. “ _I’ve_ got a car.”

Zayn nods, unfazed. 

“Louis’s got a car.”

Harry looks over at Perrie, and she just shrugs. She tucks her book in her bag. 

“Yeah.” Harry nods. “Yeah, alright.”

 

They walk to Louis’s car. It’s an old Renault, a little battered, but he seems proud of it, like it was something brand new. He smiles at Perrie and gestures to the passenger’s side door. 

“Lady’s choice, yeah?” 

She crosses her arms and looks at him skeptically. 

“Because I’m a girl? Fuck no, mate.”

Zayn laughs appreciatively.

“We’ll make it fair, then. Rock paper scissors.”

He and Perrie go first, counting down, tapping their fists on their open palms. Perrie chooses rock, but Zayn picks paper, and she throws her hands up in surrender. 

“Fair enough. Haz?”

Zayn turns to Harry and smiles, he mouths something then, and it looks like “Haz”, like he’s trying it out. Seeing how it feels. Harry feels heat rising in his cheeks at that, at Zayn’s quiet voice. It feels weirdly intimate. Zayn holds his fist in the air and Harry makes a fist with his own hand. They count down. 

“Rock, paper, scissors—“

He picks rock, hoping that Zayn will mix it up, but Zayn picks paper again. He presses his palm down, covering Harry’s outstretched fist, and Harry jumps a little at the contact. Zayn’s never touched him before. Zayn had never even talked to him before today, before a few minutes ago. Harry frowns, then brings his other hand around and under, wiggling his fingers dramatically. He hears Perrie groan. 

“Fire.” He smiles at Zayn wickedly, and Zayn looks a little horrified, then a little delighted. He mimics Harry, waving his fingers around in the air, but it's different when he does it...looks indecent somehow.

“That doesn't look much like fire to me, mate," he says through a laugh, "but yeah, alright. You win.”

 

* * *

**Now**

 

“Flame.”

“Hmmm?”

“Five down. _You could rekindle an old one_. The answer is flame.”

“Well I could’ve sussed that out. Just hadn’t got there yet.”

Harry sits back and stretches in his seat.

“Right.”

Zayn taps the end of his pen on the newspaper. He’s folded it fastidiously, so just the puzzle is showing, with the list of clues to the side and below. 

“It’s different over here. The words are all odd.”

“Not so many U’s.”

“Yeah. And they say like…’a-LOO-mi-num.’”

Harry nods. He stares down at his phone, checking the flight info again. Refreshing the list of departures. Nothing’s changed. It’s like they’re frozen in time. 

“Do you think she’s losing her accent?”

“Hmmm?” Harry looks over at Zayn. He’s stopped with the tapping; he’s just resting his pen in his lap now and staring at the door. The one that will open and swallow them up when it’s time to board. He looks at Harry.

“Her accent. It just sounds like…funny. Not like it used to.”

Harry considers.

“Maybe…yeah.”

“I just…I hadn’t noticed it before. On the phone or anything. It’s different when you see a person in real life…different to see her in the place where she spends her time.”

“Yeah.”

“I guess…” Zayn looks like he’s studying something in the distance, trying to make out its shape. “I just had this idea of Pez as the girl we grew up with? Just old Pez, but like…transplanted. Unchanged. Same old person. But that’s so stupid.”

Harry shakes his head. It’s not stupid. 

“It’s just memory or whatever. It’s what you’ve got. Like, the idea of the person. That’s what you hold onto.”

“Yeah, I suppose. It’s weird though. It’s weird…knowing that people just go on without you. They just…keep changing. You’ve got no say in the whole thing.”

Harry watches Zayn. He’s looking down at the puzzle in his lap again, but he doesn’t seem to be studying it. He’s lost in thought. Zayn is different too. It’s not a surprise. It’s been 5 years, give or take. His hair is long, shaved on the sides and falling in his face, and he looks to have collected about as many tattoos as Harry over the years. His chin is darkened by stubble and his angles look sharper, but something about him is softer too. Like the whole of him has relaxed over time. Like he’s let something go. 

“You’ve changed too, you know.”

Zayn smiles and rubs at his jaw with one hand. 

“Yeah. I suppose. Just…doesn’t seem as drastic when you’re the one changing.”

“Like a frog.”

“Huh?” He looks over at Harry, confused.

“Like a frog in boiling water. Heat it up gradually and he’ll not notice the change. He’ll just slowly cook.”

Zayn lets that hang in the air for a moment, in a way that’s familiar to Harry. It’s a bit. A game they used to play. Zayn’s voice is deadpan when he speaks again. 

“That’s horrible.”

Harry wrinkles his nose.

“Yeah. It really is. Sorry.”

Zayn shakes his head. He’s looking at Harry in an strange unreadable way. It makes Harry want to slide out of his seat and crawl away, to have Zayn look at him like that. Because it’s _Zayn_. No matter how much he’s changed or how many tattoos he’s got or how weird his hair looks, his eyes are the same. His mouth and the set of his jaw….the way he looks at Harry. His voice.

“You’ve not changed one bit.”

Harry has to laugh at that. At how patently untrue it is. He’s grown close to five centimeters and gained something like six inches of hair. Lost the baby fat. His face is longer. Thinner. More defined. He looks in the mirror now and sees an adult human, not the perpetually surprised face of an infant, all pink lips and flushed cheeks and wild curls. Not the boy he used to be. He wonders if Zayn is looking at him now and seeing that boy, the way Harry can see the boy Zayn used to be. 

Harry looks down and worries at a hole in the knee of his jeans. 

“Yeah…maybe not.”

A call comes over the intercom then, and by now Harry knows the tune. Very sorry for the delay, just one hour more, give or take. Thank you for your patience. He sighs. 

“I think this may be our new home.”

“Jesus.” Zayn is typing into his phone, frowning. Harry thinks he must be updating someone. He wonders who. A girlfriend? His mum? A mate who’s agreed to give him a lift home? Zayn finishes his text and taps the send button with a sort of finality, then he turns to Harry. 

“Fancy a pint? If we’re going to be here a while, we might as well get pissed.”

 

* * *

**Then**

 

“No! I hate you!”

Harry watches the Princess spin out, watches her lose her last life, and his half of the screen goes dark. _Lost!_ , it says. Zayn laughs. 

“I know.”

Harry lets his shoulders sink. Lets himself slowly deflate.

“It’s not fair. You get all the red shells and I’m left with a pile of banana peels.”

Perrie slides down off the couch and takes the controller from his hand, resetting the game. 

“Banana peels are a fine weapon if you know how to use them, Harry.”

She selects Yoshi, and Zayn picks Toad, and they’re off, driving in circles around the 16-bit arena, lobbing shells at each other. Zayn always picks Toad, when they play this way. It’s not like the time trials or the tournament races, when he only ever picks Donkey Kong. He says battle mode isn’t about speed, it’s about maneuverability. 

Harry falls back on the sofa and stretches out. He looks up at the wall, at the cluster of framed photos there. Zayn’s mum and dad, his sisters. He’s got like a hundred sisters, from what Harry can tell. He says it’s cool, having Harry around. Like having a brother; that he’s never had one of them. It used to be Louis, Harry thinks. It used to be the two of them, together nearly all the time, partners in crime. But Louis’s got El now, so Zayn’s got Harry and Pez. That seems to be how it goes, really. People pair off, priorities shift, everything is rearranged.  

“Where’s your mum, Zayn?”

“She’s got a dance thing with with the girls. Out until this evening.”

He takes a sharp turn and hits the gas, lobbing a green shell at Perrie’s car. She dodges out of the way at the last minute and sticks her tongue out. 

“Too slow, loser.”

“I’m surprised she let you lot come over when she wasn’t here. I swear, she thinks Pez and I are snogging every time she’s not looking. She’s bloody paranoid.”

Harry laughs, and it sounds weird and high and reedy. It’s embarrassing. 

“What? Why? Just because we’re over all the time?”

Zayn shrugs and angles his head at Perrie. 

“Cause she’s a girl or whatever. I told her, I was like ‘Haz is over nearly every day, it could be _him_ I’m snogging’. Told her she was being sexist.”

Perrie laughs so hard she slips up and hits a banana peel. One of the spheres orbiting her car floats up and away. Harry feels like that a little, like he’s moving up and away. 

“Shit.” Perrie sticks her lip out in frustration. “What did she say?”

“Huh?”

“What did she say when you told her you could be snogging Harry?”

Zayn laughs, his shoulders shaking gently. 

“She went white as a sheet. Then she was like ‘I’m glad you’ve got such close friends, Zayn. I just want you to be happy.”

Perrie giggles, and Zayn laughs, and Harry joins in because it’s hysterical. It’s a very funny story. It’s all hilarious.

“You can tell her not to worry. I wouldn’t date either of you. I’ve got standards.”

“We know, Pez. You only tell us every other day.”

Harry looks at his phone. Checks the time. 

“Shouldn’t Louis be here by now?”

Zayn glances over at him, then back at the game.

“Yeah. Can you just check my—aaah shit. Haz, run up and grab my phone? I left it in my room.”

Harry leaves them then. He walks through the kitchen, his socks sliding on the linoleum, then makes his way up the stairs to Zayn’s room. He can hear the noise of the game through the floor, muffled and tinny. The sound of Perrie’s laugh. Zayn’s room is quiet and dark and his curtains are drawn so when Harry walks in, all he can make out is the greenish light of the glow-in-the-dark stars that Zayn’s stuck on the ceiling above his bed. 

He stops for a moment, there in the doorway, with his hand hovering near the light switch, then decides against it. He steps into the room, treading lightly, trying not to make a sound, like he’s entering some kind of sacred space. There’s something about it, empty and dark and filled with the idea of Zayn. The smell and the feel of him, like he’s here, all around Harry. 

He sits down on the bed for a moment and closes his eyes. Breathes in and imagines Zayn here in this place, alone. Imagines him lying on the floor next to the stereo, doodling in a sketchbook or reading comics. Imagines him sitting in bed shirtless, pinching a joint between his fingers and pursing his lips to blow smoke out the cracked window. 

He thinks of Zayn wondering where Harry’s gone. Coming to find him. Walking through the door and speaking Harry’s name softly into the dark. Pushing him down into the bed and pressing his lips to Harry’s throat. He wonders how that would feel. 

Harry hears footsteps on the stairs and opens his eyes. He fumbles at the bedside table and finds Zayn’s phone, then stands up just as Perrie comes through the door. She squints into the dark.

“Did you get lost, Haz?”

“Nah.” He holds up the phone, “Was just hiding under some stuff.”

She rolls her eyes and smiles.

“Next time turn the light on maybe, genius.” 

 

* * *

 

**Now**

 

The restaurant is garish and cavernous and empty, and they drag their bags up to the bar, then arrange themselves on neighboring stools. The woman behind the counter nods and smiles their way, dropping menus in front of them. Harry peruses the offerings, but he’s having trouble focusing, so he just peers up at the woman hopefully. He smiles. 

“Do you have anything with like…pomegranate? Or…I don’t know, something tart—“

He glances over at Zayn as he speaks and sees him giving the woman a look. A _“do you see what I have to deal with?”_ sort of look. He rolls his eyes like he’s an actor in a play, winking at the audience. It hits Harry somewhere deep in the center of him, this act. It’s familiar. Like an old song he used to know the words to. He falls silent and Zayn laughs.

“Jesus, Haz.” He smiles at the woman. “Just give us a lager and a stout, yeah?”

The woman glances at each of them in turn and smiles. Like she knows something. Like she’s in on a joke.

“Sure thing.”

 ***

“So you do like…sculpture type stuff?”

Zayn takes a swig of his stout and swallows. He’s looking up at the TV in the corner. It’s playing some gameshow. Something American and unfamiliar,  like a very glitzy game of hangman. He turns his head and smiles over at Harry. 

“Yeah. Mostly industrial art. Welding and fabricating. Got some sick burns.”

He pulls at the collar of his striped button-up and shows Harry a spot on his neck. A pale ragged scar just over his collarbone. Harry would like to reach out and touch it. To see if it feels rough or smooth. Warm or cold. Compare the scarred tissue to the skin around it. He grips his pint and raises his eyebrows. 

“Fuck me….I don’t think I could do that. I’m like, a _proper_ wimp. Can’t really handle much pain, you know?”

“Yeah.” Zayn looks up at the TV again. “I remember. You’re working at a law firm now? That’s like…so serious and adult, like.”

“Yeah. I’m one of them, you know.”

Zayn looks at him.

“One of what?”

“An adult.”

It feels like a half-truth. 

They watch the game for a while. Watch the phrase slowly reveal itself as a woman in a gown turns rotating panels and gestures theatrically. The category at the bottom of the screen is _military term_. Zayn frowns, considering. 

“It’s ‘rules’. Rules of something.”

Harry nods. Someone on screen yells out the letter “g”.

“‘Rules of engagement’,” he says. 

Zayn nods appreciatively. He pushes his pint around on the counter, leaving a trail of condensation, then runs one finger through the wetness, tracing a lazy pattern. 

“Nice one.”

 

* * *

 

**Then**

 

“B? P? It’s P, right?”

Zayn makes a humming noise, not giving anything away. He traces another letter into the skin of Perrie’s ankle and she laughs, jerking her leg reflexively. They’re lying on the couch with their heads propped on either arm, their legs intertwined, her foot resting at the junction of his hip and thigh. Harry went to get a glass of water from the kitchen and for a moment when he came back, as he hovered in the doorway, he couldn’t tear his eyes away--her foot resting on Zayn’s middle, small and delicate and casual as anything. Harry’d sat down on the floor, leaned his back against the couch on Zayn’s side and queued up the film. 

Perrie kicks out again as Zayn works, stifling a giggle, and he grunts unhappily. Harry looks up at them. Zayn is grimacing down at his lap.

“Watch it, bloody hell. This is a sensitive area.”

She claps one hand over her mouth and it’s a lovely thing to watch. She looks like a cartoon of herself, with her eyes all charcoaled and wide. Harry laughs too, and Zayn tugs at her leg, steadying her. 

“Stay still.”

He traces another letter, slowly, smiling to himself. 

“E. That’s an E. And…that’ll be an R, you’re spelling my name. That’s easy, Zayno.”

Zayn laughs and keeps working.

“Not an R? N? Then…what’s that…I?…Ugh! Get off!”

She kicks at him and wrenches her leg away. Zayn cries out in protest. 

“I haven’t finished! You didn’t let me—“

“I know what you were writing, you degenerate.”

Harry cranes his neck, looking up at Zayn, who’s laughing to himself. 

“What were you writing?”

Perrie untangles her legs and readjusts, giving Harry a sour look. 

“He was spelling—“

“Penitentiary. I was spelling penitentiary, but she wouldn’t let me finish.”

“That’s the biggest load of—“

That’s a forfeit, is what it is. I win.”

She tosses a pillow at his head and he deflects it, grinning. 

“You do not. That’s not fair play.”

“It is too. Harry? What do you say? Is that fair play?”

“ _Penis_ is not—“

“ _Penitentiary_. I’m asking Harry. Harry?”

Harry shrugs and starts the movie.

“Seems like fair play to me, Pez.”

“Ugh.” She sounds disgusted. “You two can have each other.”

Harry feels Zayn’s hand at the top of his head, ruffling his hair. 

“Fine with me.”

Harry hums and pushes his head against Zayn’s hand. He can’t help it. It’s just there, and the room is dark and the movie has started and something about all of that together makes him feel all tingly. Like a shiver down the back of his neck and shoulders, all the way to his tailbone. Zayn doesn’t take his hand away. He lets Harry move into him, then tangles his hand in Harry’s hair, tugging at the curls. 

Twenty minutes later, Zayn’s hand is still there, a gentle weight at the top of his head. Warm and solid and unmoving as the movie plays in the dark.

“This is so sad though,” Perrie’s voice sounds breathy, like she’s falling asleep. “Why would you want to erase an entire person from your memory? Like…everything you did together? Why would you do that?”

Harry feels Zayn shift and his hand moves a little, traveling down to the side of Harry’s head, his fingers pressing into the scalp gently. 

“Dunno. If they’re just like…too painful to think of or something?”

“Then why were you with them in the first place? If you hate them that much?”

Harry is only half listening. He’s drifted away somewhere. The world has gone all out of focus and it’s like all that exists in solid space is his head and Zayn’s hand. Zayn’s hand moving through his hair, tugging at the curls. The blunt ends of his fingers running over Harry’s scalp. He sighs quietly, then feels his cheeks go hot. Feels Zayn shudder, like he’s laughing, then the press of his fingers. An acknowledgement. 

“I don’t think it’s got to do with hate, Pez. It’s not like hating a person. It’s loving them too much or something.”

“Sounds mental.”

“Love is mental maybe.”

They fall silent, but Zayn doesn’t take his hand away. As the movie plays, he widens his range, exploring the whole of Harry’s head, the nape of his neck, the place where his hair begins at the top of his brow. Harry nearly makes a noise at one point, when Zayn pulls the hair at his temple back and suddenly his fingers are brushing the tip of an ear, tracing the contours lightly, down over the lobe and then up again and behind, over the curve of his skull.

Harry meters his breath, but it feels ragged and shallow. It feels illicit somehow, what Zayn’s doing. Like something that Perrie can’t see. Can’t know about. Zayn’s fingers are warm and firm and soft, and they move deliberately over the skin at the back of his ear. Over the place where everything goes thin and folds. Harry closes his eyes and breathes and it dawns on him suddenly that no one’s ever touched him there before, in that small secret space. That it’s hidden away. It feels like Zayn’s claimed that part of him somehow. Named it as his own. 

“Zaynie, will you bring me a bag of crisps out of the kitchen?”

Zayn grunts, and Harry feels him shift on the couch. Just like that, his hand is gone. 

 

* * *

 

**Now**

 

“When did you start talking with Pez again?”

Harry pushes his empty pint glass across the counter as the woman sets a fresh one down. There’s foam rolling down the outside and he raises it to his mouth. Catches the spill with his tongue. 

“Her first year out. In the winter, you know? She was having a rough go of it, being away from home. Called my mum and got my necessaries.”

“I remember that year.” Zayn laughs quietly. “She called me crying because there was a cockroach in her kitchen and she didn’t know what to do about it. Ha. She was hysterical. It wasn’t the cockroach. She was just…she was going through some stuff I suppose.” He pushes his hair back out of his face and looks up at the TV. It’s playing an advert for cat litter. “I remember she said ‘I wish Harry was here. Harry would know what to do.’”

Harry nearly chokes on his beer.

“About a _cockroach_?”

“I know, right? Like I said, she was in hysterics.”

The ad ends, and a screen comes up showing some sort of rating system. General audiences. Mild violence.

“She seemed happier, after that. That must’ve been about the time she tracked you down.”

Harry remembers. Her voice on the phone. The apologies. Her tearful regret and his gentle assurances. He wasn’t mad. He’d never been angry with Perrie. He just had to go. Had to leave. It never had anything to do with her, his leaving. It had everything to do with Harry. 

“I’m glad she did. She wasn’t the same without you.” A pause. He breathes in, then out. “We weren’t the same.”

It’s a strange thing to say. Strange words to use. So Harry doesn’t respond. He doesn’t ask Zayn to elaborate. He just watches the screen as it goes dark, then light again. He laughs.

“Mental.”

Zayn looks at the screen. 

“What?”

“It’s the movie. The one I was talking about… _of all the gin joints in the world_. They’re playing Casablanca. I can’t believe you’ve never seen this.”

Zayn raises a hand at the woman behind the bar, signaling that he’s ready for another pint. Just then his phone buzzes, creeping across the varnished wood of the counter, and he picks it up. He taps a few words into the keyboard, then drops it again, just as the woman sets a fresh beer in front of him. 

“Might as well watch it now, then.”

 

* * *

 

**Then**

 

He’s nearly asleep when his phone buzzes, moving across the bedside table as it vibrates. He pulls it down under the blankets and checks the screen, then answers and presses the phone to his ear. 

“It’s late. What do you want?”

“Dunno. Can’t sleep. Pez just went home…I’m just like…I need you to tell me a story or something.”

“To help you sleep?”

“Yeah. Your stories always put me to sleep.”

“Excuse me?”

“Nothing. That’s not what I meant. I don’t know, Haz…I’m so awake. I just want to talk.”

“What about?”

“About nothing. I don’t want to talk about anything.”

“Soooo…what’re you—?”

“We can play a game or something.”

“Over the phone?”

“I dunno, yeah. Truth or dare.”

“How will I know if you _actually_ do whatever I dare you to do?”

“Er…fair point. I guess we’ll just like…change the rules. Truth only or something.”

Harry rolls over onto his back. He sighs and pulls the blankets further over his head. 

“Yeah alright.”

“You go first.”

Harry tries to picture Zayn in his room.

“Are you in bed?”

“Yeah. Is that your first question?”

Harry yawns.

“Yeah I suppose. You go.”

“S’not a very exciting question. You’ve got to do better than that.”

“Was just warming up, wasn’t I? Come on. Hit me.”

“What are you wearing?”

Harry giggles nervously. He can’t help himself. 

“Hold on a minute, now. What sort of a phone call is this?”

“Not like that. I’m just…warming up or whatever. Just tell me.”

“I’m—“

“The truth.”

“Yeah yeah, I get it.”

He lifts the sheet up and peers down at himself. 

“I’m wearing pants.”

“Pants.” Zayn imitates Harry’s accent, the slow way he speaks. It makes Harry smile. Like Zayn’s accessed some small part of Harry. Borrowed a piece of him for a moment. It makes Zayn seem close. Like he’s in the room.

“Yeah just like…grey…pants. I don’t know.”

“Ok that’s good enough I suppose. Your turn.”

Harry closes his eyes and considers. He thinks of Zayn’s room. His posters. The skateboard leaned up against the wall by the door. The shelf full of books. 

“Have you ever…”

“This sounds promising.”

“Shhh…” Harry thinks of Zayn, lying in his bed, staring up at the ceiling where he’s stuck all those plastic glow in the dark stars. Like a little galaxy above his head. Thinks of him holding the phone against his ear, picturing Harry. “Have you ever tossed off to one of your comic books?”

Zayn laughs, sharp and a little strangled. 

“Fucking hell, Harry.”

“You said I had to make it good.”

Zayn makes a sighing noise, like he’s at a loss. 

“Killin’ me right now.”

“You’ve got to answer or you forfeit.”

“Yeah yeah, I know.”

“So…is there a time limit here? What are the rules?”

“Yes.”

“Yes there’s a time limit?”

“No. There’s not—don’t make me say it again.”

“Yes?” Harry giggles, then presses his hand to his mouth, breathing in sharply. “Which one?”

“Nuh-uh. It’s my turn now.”

“But I need to know.”

“Well that’s not how the game works. Jesus. I can’t believe you made me say that.”

“I’m sorry.”

“If you tell Pez, I swear to god—“

“I won’t! I wouldn’t. Your turn.”

“Okay…um…when was the last time you…uh.”

Harry plays dumb. He runs a hand over his stomach, under the sheets, then feels self-conscious and stops. Rests his hand on his chest.

“The last time I what?”

“You know…”

“If you can’t say it—“

“When was the last time you tossed off, you wanker?”

Harry looks up at the ceiling. Traces a crack in the plaster with his eyes. He thinks of the last time. The slide of soap on his skin and the heat of the water. He thinks of the shape of Zayn’s mouth for a moment. The curve of his lips.

“…uh…this morning I guess? In the shower?”

“Ugh. Gross.”

“You asked!”

“I regret it. Your turn.”

“What were you and Perrie doing tonight?”

He can hear Zayn breathing softly on the other end of the line. 

“Dunno…” He sounds bored. Or dismissive. Like he can’t be arsed. Something like that. “Just chillin. Watched a movie.”

“Alright.”

“Ok. My turn. Are you ready?”

Harry nods, then remembers Zayn can’t see him. 

“Yeah. Yeah let me have it.”

“Do you like anyone?”

Harry feels his stomach lurch. _You_ , he thinks. He tries to collect his thoughts. Come up with an answer that will satisfy Zayn. _You. I like you_.

“I like you.” His voice is measured. Calm. It’s a little eerie, like he’s hearing someone who’s not himself. “And I like Pez. And my sister, sometimes.”

“That’s not what I meant and you know it.”

“Oh.” He keeps his voice innocent. “Well, be more specific next time I guess.”

“Your turn.”

Harry pulls the phone away from his ear and checks the time. 11:38. The side of his face feels hot where the phone was a moment ago, and he presses the back of his hand to the skin there, trying to cool himself down. He moves the phone back and hears Zayn speaking.

“Are you there?”

“Yeah, I’m here.”

“Did you hear me?”

“No, I was looking at the time.”

“It’s your turn.”

“Yeah…um…” He smiles in the dark. “Do you love anyone?”

“Ha. I see how it is.”

“How what is?”

“I love you.”

Harry wants the bed to swallow him up. His face feels hot, in a different way now, and he’s overcome by the strangest feeling. Like exhilaration mixed with regret. Like he’s playing with things he shouldn’t. Like he’s about to ruin something precious. 

“And I love Perrie and I love my mum and my sisters.”

Harry exhales deliberately and turns over on his side.

“Touché.” He presses his eyes closed in the dark. “We’re rubbish at this game.”

“Nah…I think we’re doing just fine.”

 

* * *

 

**Now**

 

The beer is getting to him, going to his head, but what else is there to do? In this place, with this person, what else is there? The movie has nearly ended, and Zayn looks like he’s on his way to mashed. Like he’s had one too many, the same as Harry. 

 _Ossified_ , Harry thinks, and it’s so weird, to think that here and now. It’s something Niall would’ve said. Something very Irish. Harry doesn’t want to think about Niall but it’s not like he should be surprised. Tonight is full of ghosts. 

Zayn is frowning up at the screen, looking a little wistful. A little broken. 

“I don’t understand. This movie…it’s rubbish.”

Harry is taken aback. He all but slams his pint down on the bar, offended. 

“Excuse me? This movie is a classic.”

“But it makes no sense. She left. Why did she leave?”

“Because he wouldn’t let her stay.” Harry’s face feels hot. He feels heavy with alcohol. He’s not had enough water. “It’s not safe. She’s got to go with her husband because he knows she’ll be safe. That she’ll be ok.”

“Bullshit.” Zayn’s voice is hard, acidic. It shocks Harry a little. Zayn’s voice has always been so soft. Somnambulant. “He’s scared. He loves her, but he knows it’s a risk. He knows it could all go up in flames so he’s pushed her away.”

“Things have already gone up in flames, what do you expect him to do?”

“I don’t expect _him_ to do anything. She’s the one who’s got a choice to make. I just. It’s not right. That’s not what love is.”

“But it is…she loves her husband. It’s just…different. A different sort of love.”

“It’s _safe_.” He spits the word out like it’s poison. Like it means something ugly. “Love shouldn’t be safe. Love is a risk. It’s all…unknowns and blind corners and it’s… _hard_. You’ve…it’s a thing you’ve got to fight for, not something you run away from. You can’t give in like that. Just because it’s the thing you’re expected to do. Because it’s the safe bet.”

Harry looks at Zayn. He feels sick to his stomach. Exhausted. He wonders if Zayn can hear himself. _Really_ hear himself. Then he knows the answer is yes, because Zayn presses a hand to his temple and closes his eyes, like he’s in pain. Like he’s trying to clear his head. 

“I’m sorry.”

Harry swallows thickly and looks down at his beer. He pushes the glass away from him then, like it was something offered, like an apology no one asked for.

“For what?”

“I never meant to like…play with you. The way I did.”

Harry needs to lie down. He needs to slide off the stool and lie down on the floor and sleep until he’s sober. He shakes his head.

“I don’t know what you mean. Look…let’s get back to the gate. I want to try to get a kip in before we go.”

Zayn just nods, and they split the bill, and Harry stumbles a bit as he stands. Zayn reaches out and steadies him, one hand at the bend of Harry’s elbow. Harry wants to lean into it and move away all at once. He shoulders his bag and they make their way back to the terminal. 

When they get there, Zayn sits and opens his book and Harry kicks his boots off. He stretches himself long, across four seats, but it’s uncomfortable and strange and his neck is bent at a weird angle and finally he hears Zayn sigh and say his name, quietly. Harry looks up at him and he’s folded his jumper up on his lap. He pats at it gently. 

“Here. Just…put your head here. It’ll be more comfortable.”

Harry wants to argue, or scowl, or politely refuse, but he’s tired and he feels beaten, so he just nods and scoots back toward Zayn. He rests his head on Zayn’s thigh, on the soft cotton of his jumper. It smells familiar and alien all at once. 

He adjusts, folding his legs and leaning them against the back of the chair, and Zayn moves his arms, laying one over Harry’s chest and the other around the top of his head. Harry can hear him breathing, registers the gentle muscular movement in Zayn’s forearms as he turns the pages of his book. The intercom clicks. Not much longer, she says. Thank you for your patience. The door to the boarding ramp opens, then closes with a dull thud. Harry closes his eyes and tries to sleep.

 

* * *

 

**Then**

 

The closet door shuts behind them, abrupt and sharp and final. It’s nearly pitch black, and Harry hears Zayn shuffling around in the dark, then a metallic click and the space around them is filled with dim yellow light. 

“Hi.” Zayn is smiling over at him, his eyes dark. He looks a little pissed. Like he’s had one too many. He looks like Harry feels, but less nervous maybe. Less on edge. He reaches out and rubs at Harry’s shoulders briskly. “You look so nervous, Haz. It’s just me.”

Harry smiles and it feels wooden. It shouldn’t. It should feel natural and right and easy, but something has changed lately. It’s nothing Harry can put his finger on, just a feeling. Something in the way Zayn looks at him, like Harry’s upset him. Frustrated him. Something off in the way Zayn touches him. Sometimes—when they’re stoned, mostly. When things get slow and hazy—Harry thinks Zayn’s trying to communicate something, coding little messages into Harry’s skin, like Morse Code or braille. A language Harry doesn’t understand. 

But that not it. That’s all in his head. Zayn is his best friend and everything’s fine. Nothing has changed. 

“I’m fine. Just…don’t like being shut up in a closet. It’s weird.”

“Well, it’s how the game’s played. 7 minutes in heaven, right?”

“Doesn’t feel like heaven.” It feels like a lie, and also like the truest thing Harry’s ever said. 

Someone raps on the door sharply. 

“Oi! You snogging yet? You’ve got 6 more minutes, lads, make the most of it, yeah?”

Zayn looks over at Harry with mock concern. 

“Only 6 minutes. We’d better get to it then.”

Harry laughs nervously. 

“How do we…uh.”

“Here.” Zayn reaches out and messes with Harry’s hair, pushing it around on his head. “We’ve got to make it look like we were snogging.” He reaches up and works at his own quiff, running his hands through it. Harry rubs at his own head and frowns.

“Why?”

Zayn shrugs, then licks his lips. His tongue looks pink and soft in the low light. He rubs at his mouth with the back of his hand. 

“Cause that’s how the game’s played.”

“Is it?”

“Yeah. Here.” He reaches over to Harry and snakes one hand around the back of his neck, holding him still. Harry’s heart feels like it could beat right out of his chest. Zayn’s touched him before. Zayn’s touched him plenty. But there’s something in the closeness of the air, the tight quarters. The way that they’re so patently _alone_. Something about the alcohol on Zayn’s breath as he steps closer and the warmth of his thumb as it moves over Harry’s lips, rubbing at them. 

“You’ve got to get them a little wet.” His voice is quiet. It sounds strained, like he’s in pain. 

“Four minutes!”

Zayn doesn’t even look at the door.

“Got it! Now piss off!”

Harry laughs a little and pushes his tongue out, licking his lips. His timing is terrible, and he catches the side of Zayn’s thumb as it moves over his mouth. It tastes salty. Harry watches Zayn’s eyes widen a little in surprise, then he bites his lip and shakes his head. He cups Harry’s cheek in his palm, appraising his own work, his thumb resting at the corner of Harry’s mouth. 

“This isn’t…it doesn’t look right.”

“I don’t…”

“It’s got to be—“ He glances at the door, then back at Harry, and suddenly something in his face has changed. Like he’s given up, or like he’s found some well of determination. Both things at the same time maybe, which seems impossible, but Harry doesn’t have time to parse out what it means, because Zayn kisses him then. He presses his lips to Harry’s so hard, Harry is pushed back into the wall of the closet. In his urgency, Zayn’s caught his own thumb between their lips. He pulls it away, moving it down Harry’s jaw and over his neck. 

Zayn breathes against Harry’s mouth and it sounds uneven. His voice is low when he speaks. 

“Gotta make it look right.”

His lips are warm and wet and insistent and Harry is so caught off guard, he doesn’t know what to think. So he doesn’t. He doesn’t think. His mind is all white noise and his body is all blinding need. He pulls Zayn to him, tugging at his waist and his hips desperately, and Zayn meets him halfway, pressing himself against Harry, gripping the back of his neck so hard it feels bruising. Their tongues are pressing at each other and their lips are moving and Harry feels the kiss in his everywhere, through his entire body. Like it’s a flame, burning him up. It’s wonderful and terrible and it makes his stomach turn, and then he’s pushing Zayn away, off of him. Holding him just out of reach. Zayn watches him, his eyes bright in the dark. He looks hungry and vicious and innocent and uncertain. Harry tries to get a good look at him. He needs to read Zayn’s face. His head feels foggy and confused by booze and by kissing and he needs to see things clearly, just for a moment. 

“Zayn, what is this?”

Zayn’s cheeks look flushed. He shakes his head like he’s not sure what Harry’s asking. 

“What do you—“

Harry hears a rustling outside the door. Glances over, then back at Zayn.

“Is this part of the game?”

Zayn doesn’t say anything for a moment. He just watches Harry. He looks a little lost and very very young. 

“I don’t know.”

Harry opens his mouth to speak, just as the door swings open and the closet is flooded with light. 

“Time’s up!”

Soft hands, tugging at them. Pulling them out into the light. Harry rubs at his lips with the back of a hand, like he’s trying to erase the evidence, and that seems to satisfy everyone. He stares down at the carpet, embarrassed and exhilarated and confused. When he looks up again, Zayn is gone. 

He doesn’t see Zayn for another hour. Not until after Perrie’s pulled Harry away into an upstairs toilet and confessed to him, giddy with illicit glee but penitent, begging his forgiveness for keeping it from him for so long. She presses her forehead to his as they perch on the edge of the bath together. She smells like mint and vodka and faintly like the coconut shampoo she keeps in her bathroom at home. Harry used it once, when he slept over. He couldn’t get the smell out for a week. 

“Zayn didn’t want us to say anything. He didn’t want you to know yet. And like…I get that, you know? It’s always been the three of us. You’re my boys. My best mates. I need you both here. I just…I don’t want anything to be different, just because Zayn and I are like… _together_ now.”

Harry nods. _Us...together_. He feels like he might throw up. Like he’s had too much to drink. He presses a thumb to the edge of his mouth, where Zayn’s thumb had been not long before. 

“So you are then?”

“Huh?”

“You’re together now?”

Perrie nods and pulls back, dropping her hands into her lap. She looks regretful, like a mother who’s broken a promise to her child. Harry feels sorry for her. He thinks she must be very stupid. Then he bites his own lip, hard, because those are horrible things to think. Perrie is his best friend, aside from Zayn. They’re his best friends. He should be happy. 

“Is it alright?” She looks up at him, uncertain. Like she’s trying to read his face. To look inside of him. “Harry, I know that feelings are like…hard for you but, I just need you to tell me honestly what you think about all of this.”

He wants to look away. He doesn’t want to meet her gaze, but he does. He smiles, and it’s strained and it hurts and he hopes it doesn’t show on his face. 

“I’m alright, Pez. I love you. I love both of you.” He wants to slide down onto the floor. He wants to press his face to the cool tiles and never get up. “I just want you to be happy.”

 

* * *

 

**Now**

 

When Harry wakes up, it’s to Zayn’s thumb on his face, tracing the line of his brow. He opens his eyes and sees Zayn looking down at him. Harry feels dehydrated, like he’s already halfway to a hangover, and he can’t tell if he’s physically exhausted or if it’s more emotional. He’s drained. Rubbed a little raw. He frowns up at Zayn and Zayn smiles softly. 

“What are you doing?” 

Zayn taps Harry’s forehead softly, just at the center where his third eye would be, the one Gemma said he needed to work on opening last year when she was doing too much yoga. 

“I’m memorizing your face. Need to update the idea of you that I’m carrying around. For the next 5 years or whatever.” 

They look at each other then and Zayn hesitates, his mouth slightly open, like he wants to say more, but he just moves his hand lower and runs a thumb over Harry’s lips, slowly. It makes Harry’s stomach turn, the way it did years ago. It feels like he’s been pulled out of time for a moment, like they’re back in that closet together, so Harry sticks his tongue out. Catches just the edge of Zayn’s thumb. Zayn laughs and it sounds like a “ha” and he makes a pained kind of face. Harry thinks his eyes look wet. Zayn’s voice is quiet when he speaks again.

“It’s so weird. Being here with you. It’s like time travel. Or like…” He looks up, toward the closed door to the plane. “Like we’re in purgatory. Replaying all our mistakes or something.” 

Harry just watches him, and for a moment he feels powerful…cold and cruel and outside of his own morality. He thinks he could sit up now, shift his weight and press his lips to Zayn’s. He could pull Zayn out of his seat and drag him into the bathroom and fuck him senseless in a stall, quick and rough and vicious, without saying a thing. The way Zayn wants it, maybe. Punishing, like he’s performing some sort of penance. Or Harry could be sweet and tender and slow and he could whisper in Zayn’s ear as he moves inside of him, breathless mumbled words that amount to forgiveness. To understanding. Words that mean something like "I'm  sorry". He could do anything in this moment, in this place. Because he’s a 24-year old man and he knows what it is to fuck someone in order to push them away, to exorcise them, and what it is to pull them close and let them in. He knows what love feels like. What it is to surrender. To let someone scale your walls and take up residence in your deepest parts. To lay claim to pieces of you no one’s ever touched. In this moment he’s a 24-year old man and he’s an 18-year old boy and he knows what it is to want something so badly it hurts…that it makes you sick inside. 

He knows what it feels like to lose. And he understands that sometimes the only way to win is to opt out entirely. To not play the game at all.

So he doesn’t move. He just watches Zayn, and Zayn watches Harry, and Harry thinks that no one ever changes, really. No one changes and nothing ever goes away. It’s just the light that moves, casting a different shadow, making everything sharper or softer or clearer or harder to see.

A woman walks by and smiles down at Harry as she passes. Like she knows something. Like they’re just two boys in love. Like there’s not an ocean of time and distance and hurt between them. She positions herself behind the counter at the gate and picks up the phone there. Harry hears the intercom click to life. _Thank you for your patience_ , she says, _we would now like to invite our priority passengers to proceed to the gate for boarding_.

 

* * *

 

**Then**

 

“Ahaaa…you’re nearly there, Pez. Like a few centimeters, I swear.”

Perrie makes a frustrated noise, crossing her eyes and straining to stick her tongue out further, but it won’t connect. Harry tries to help, gently pressing at her arm, trying to move her elbow closer to her mouth. 

“It’s so weird…like…do you ever just think about all the parts of you that’ll never touch other parts of you?”

Harry giggles and lets go of Perrie’s arm. 

“Zayn, you’re blazed.”

Zayn just sticks his tongue out. Perrie cries out in despair and drops her arm. 

“This is such rubbish.”

“Pay up.”

She crawls across the floor to her purse and retrieves a crumpled bill from a side pocket. She chucks it at Zayn’s head and pouts.

“That right there is proof that there is a god, and he is vindictive and _cruel_.”

Harry lies back on the carpet and smiles. 

“The fact that you can’t lick your elbow? You might be reaching a bit, Pezza.”

Zayn is rolling another joint, peering down at his hands. Harry tips his head to the side and watches him work. He looks ethereal in the glow of the christmas lights strung all around his room. Soft and blue. His hands are slow and deliberate and sure. Harry thinks the word again. _Ethereal_. He’s not sure where he’s heard it before. It’s just there, inside of him. He looks back up at the ceiling. 

“How d’you know god’s not a woman?”

Perrie laughs sharply. 

“If god was a woman, we wouldn’t have half as much trouble as we do. Even if you don’t consider the elbow licking issue.”

Zayn is laughing softly. Harry closes his eyes and listens, and it feels like he’s eavesdropping somehow. Like everything is very intimate and close. He's an interloper. A stowaway. Someone who shouldn’t be here. The weed’s gone to his head maybe. He hears Perrie whimper quietly, just audible over the music. 

“I’m starving. Let’s walk to Tescos.”

Harry groans and rolls his head around on the floor. 

“Are you fucking mental? I’m not going anywhere.”

“Yeah, you’re on your own, Pez.” 

Harry can hear rustling and movement. He smells Perrie’s perfume. The stuff she’s been wearing lately. It’s got a sour note to it, something musky. It smells like something a woman would wear. He looks over and sees that she’s tackled Zayn and pinned him to the ground. 

“Watch it, babe. Watch the j.”

There’s something a little too soft in the way Zayn says that word. _Babe_. 

Harry isn’t meant to know. Nothing’s supposed to be different. Nothing _is_ different, really. They’ve always been tactile with each other. They’ve always been familiar. But Harry knows that everything’s changed, and that he’s meant to act like it hasn’t. Like this is all normal. Like he’s not carrying a lead ball around in his middle. Heavy and sinking and cold. 

_He can’t know that you know, Haz. It’s just…you know how he is with rules. He needs to draw that line or whatever. He doesn’t want to make you feel excluded. I know you understand. He’s….Zayn, you know?_

“Walk with me, Zayn. Please?”

“Nah. You go. I’ve just rolled this, and Haz doesn’t want to get up. I don’t want to leave him alone.”

The coldness in Harry’s center is spreading. Becoming something more confused. Like he’s growing roots, being cemented to this spot. Like maybe his entire life, everything he’s done and everything he’ll do, hinges on this. On being here in this moment. 

That’s just the weed though. It’s nothing. 

He hears Perrie stand up.

“Yeah, you’re right. You stay with Harry.”

Her voice is soft. Too soft, again. Everything is too fucking soft these days. 

“I’ll be back in jiff, lads.”

Harry just grunts. He listens to her retrieve her purse, the sound of her feet hitting the stairs and the slam of the front door. The song changes, and it’s still Pink Floyd, but something unfamiliar. Old. The guitar is engulfing and it builds slowly, like climbing a hill. 

“Alone at last.” Zayn giggles quietly. He sounds self-conscious. Harry feels something lurch inside of him. Something like panic. Because it’s true. They haven’t been alone together in ages. Not since the party last month, when they were shoved in that closet together. Harry realizes suddenly that maybe he’s been avoiding this. That he’s not wanted to find himself alone with Zayn. That he’s worried he might let something slip. Might cross some invisible unfathomable line. 

He keeps his eyes closed and listens to the music. After some time, he hears rustling and feels Zayn moving closer to him, kneeling over him on the carpet. 

“Have you fallen asleep?”

Harry shakes his head. He doesn’t open his eyes. 

“Do you want to play a game?”

Harry shrugs noncommittally. 

“As long as I don’t have to move.”

Zayn laughs and it sounds a little flat, tinged with something like bitterness.    

“No, you can just lie there. That’s perfect. We’ll play dead man.”

“What’s dead man?”

He feels Zayn shift. His knee touches the side of Harry’s arm, lightly.

“You lie there like a dead man. You can manage that, yeah? We’ll time it. For five minutes, I get to do whatever I want to you, and if you move, or cry out, or do anything a dead man wouldn’t do, I win.”

Harry swallows. He can feel his heart beating in his chest. 

“How do I win?”

“You get to five minutes without losing.”

“This doesn’t sound like a real game. This sounds like an excuse to torture a person.”

“It’s a real game, I promise. My sister taught me.”

This is a really stupid idea. Zayn is an idiot. Harry might hate him. 

“Ok.”

Zayn sets a timer on his phone. 

“Ready?”

“Yeah.”

“Five minutes starts now.”

For a moment, nothing happens. Harry doesn’t feel anything and he can’t hear Zayn moving, then the music gets louder, like Zayn’s turned up the volume, and Harry feels pressure in his middle, in the center of his chest. Zayn’s poking him. It feels light, experimental. Like he’s testing Harry’s softness. It tickles a little, but Harry doesn’t flinch. 

Zayn takes his hand away, then he places it over Harry’s face, spread out, covering his mouth and nose and eyes. It feels smothering and strange, but Harry doesn’t move. He doesn’t turn away. He’s going to win this game. But maybe Zayn’s just starting off slow. That’s his strategy for most things, the reason he plays Donkey Kong in Mario Kart while Harry and Pez always choose the Princess and Yoshi, respectively. Zayn knows the value of a slow steady start. He understands what it means to build momentum. 

Zayn’s hand is warm on Harry’s face, and Harry is tempted to stick his tongue out and lick it, but that would lose him the game, so he doesn’t budge. Then Zayn lifts his hand away and abruptly, the tip of his finger is up Harry’s nose. Harry wants to cry out. He wants to roll his head to the side and away, but he doesn’t move. He hears Zayn laughing quietly. 

“Ugh…you’re good at this.”

Harry doesn’t react to the praise. It’s a trick. 

Zayn takes his finger out, then probes at Harry’s ear—with his other hand, thankfully. It’s weird and invasive and uncomfortable. He pinches Harry’s eyebrow and makes Harry’s lips into duck lips but Harry is still, and he hears Zayn make a noise, like he’s frustrated. Like he can’t accept losing. 

Then Zayn’s hands are gone and Harry feels teeth on the skin of his neck. His entire body goes tense, but he doesn’t move. He tries to meter his breathing and give nothing away. Zayn bites down softly over Harry’s jugular, then at the curve of his jaw. Harry feels Zayn’s lips dragging over his chin and they feel warm and soft and a little wet. Zayn smells like sunlight and weed and soap, and Harry feels his fingers twitch, like he wants to push Zayn away, or maybe pull him close, but he doesn’t want to lose this game. He can’t let Zayn win. 

“Fuck you. You’re not going to win.” It’s a whisper, and it sounds a little desperate. Harry feels it on his skin. Zayn’s warm breath at his jaw, and then Zayn’s lips are on his, pressing down softly. Harry doesn’t move his mouth, but Zayn does, placing small kisses along the curve of Harry’s lips, at his cupid’s bow, and then his hand is tracing the rim of Harry’s ear, the way he did before, last year at Perrie’s house, when they watched that movie about memories. About loving someone too much. 

 _It’s a trick_ , he thinks. _It’s a trick, don’t let him win._  

Harry hears Zayn sigh, hears him whisper “come on, Haz,” against his lips and then Harry’s lost. He cracks his lips open and moves with Zayn, pressing upward into him. Zayn kisses him back, working Harry’s mouth open with his own and snaking his tongue past Harry’s teeth, pulling back and taking Harry’s bottom lip in his mouth. Harry makes a noise and it sounds desperate and indecent and animal. He feels himself turn red. He wants to die. But Zayn just looks down at him and kisses him harder, pushing Harry’s head down into the floor. He moves his hand, tracing the line of Harry’s neck, down over his chest and stomach, then runs his fingers along the gap between Harry’s shirt and the waistband of his jeans. Harry starts a little at his touch, pressing his hips up into Zayn’s hand. His breath feels ragged against Zayn’s mouth. 

There’s a beeping noise. The timer on Zayn’s phone, counting down to zero. 

Just like that, he’s gone. He’s sitting up at Harry’s side, wiping at his lips with the back of one hand. His cheeks are flushed and his hair is all mussed and he looks lovely and cruel and Harry hates him suddenly. More than he’s ever hated anyone before, because he knows what Zayn’s about to say.

“You lose.”

Harry doesn’t react. He just stares up at Zayn, and he hopes his face is blank. There’s a noise downstairs, the sound of the front door closing and footsteps on the stairs. The rustling of a plastic tote. 

“Pez told me.”

Zayn looks confused suddenly. He glances at the bedroom door.

“What?”

“She told me about the two of you.”

Harry watches quietly as Zayn’s face falls. He looks down at Harry like he might be sick. Like he’s been caught at something, and Harry thinks he has. He’s been caught. Because it’s all so clear, now. Harry understands at this moment that it was never just a game, and he feels something closing up inside of him. Something final. Zayn moves his mouth to speak just as the door swings opens and Perrie walks in. She chucks a bag of crisps at Zayn’s head and laughs. 

“Special delivery, you lazy twats.”

 

* * *

 

**Now**

 

Zayn shuts his book.

“It’s time to go.”

Harry sits up. He rubs at one eye with the back of his wrist. 

“Suppose so. I honestly thought for a minute we were stuck here forever.”

Zayn laughs. It sounds sleepy, a little hollow. 

“Yeah. That would’ve been awful.”

They stand, and Harry’s still a little unsteady. A little tired. A little drunk. Zayn touches a hand to his arm and smiles softly. 

“Careful.”

“I’m good.” Harry spins in a circle, looking for his shoes, then retrieves them from under the seat. Zayn bends down and stashes his book in his bag, then stands up. He nods at the boots dangling from Harry’s grip.

“You’re not so tall, without them on. We’re nearly the same, really.”

Harry smiles, and it feels more like a grimace.

“Yeah. Maybe.”

 

* * *

 

**Then**

 

Harry’s shoving clothes in a bag when Gemma knocks on his door, softly. 

“Harry?”

He sits back on his heels and pushes his hair out of his face. It’s been a bother lately. He thinks he might change it, when he gets to Paris. Wear it some other way. Reinvent himself.

“Yeah?”

She cracks the door and her expression is strange. She looks worried, like she’s about to deliver bad news, or like Harry’s got something on his face. 

“What?”

“There’s uh…you’ve got a visitor.”

She backs into the hall and Harry waits. He knows who it is. He’s been waiting for her to call, or visit or _something_. And here she is, in the eleventh hour, as he’s packing to board a plane in the morning. He arranges his face. Smiles in a benign, non threatening sort of way. Waits. 

Zayn steps through the door and shuts it behind him. Harry feels his face fall, then go hard. 

“What are you doing here?”

Zayn doesn’t look at him. He looks at the floor, at the stereo, out the window. Anywhere but at Harry. His eyes look red, like he’s been smoking. 

“Perrie said you’re leaving in the morning.”

Harry nods. 

“Yeah.”

Harry waits. Waits for an explanation. Or a question. Some reason for Zayn to be standing here, in his room after so long. But Zayn doesn’t speak. He just steps forward into the room and drops to his knees on the floor next to Harry. He looks like he’s praying for a moment, his hands in his lap. Like he’s in supplication. Like he’s begging for something. 

“I just…” His voice is low, nearly a whisper. “I have this feeling like I’m never gonna see you again.”

“Zayn, why are you—“

“I love you.”

His face is strange. Like he’s in pain. Like saying it hurts him. He looks Harry in the eye then, and Harry realizes that he’s not high. That maybe he’s been crying. Something rolls over inside of Harry, something turns. He feels a momentary surge of triumph, of vindication, then quashes it. When he speaks, his voice sounds flat.

“I’m leaving in the morning.”

“I know.”

“I’m with someone.”

Zayn flinches, his mouth tight.

“I know.”

“You and Pez—“

“Stop. Just…stop talking.”

Harry falls silent, and Zayn reaches out to him. He pushes Harry’s fringe off his forehead.

“Can we just…take a time out?”

“What?”

“Just for tonight. Just call a truce or something, and then you can leave and it’ll be like…”

He moves closer. Harry feels like a deer caught in the headlights of an oncoming car. He understands that he’s about to be run down. He sees what’s coming, and he’s frozen. He can’t look away. 

“Like nothing ever happened. Everything will be the same I just…I need to know.”

“Know what?” Harry's voice cracks. He wants to retreat. He wants to hide from whatever's coming. 

“That it’s _not_ the same. That we’re different.”

Harry shakes his head. Zayn has always been so stupid. So fucking blind. It’s always been different. It’s always been Zayn.

“That it was always me and you.”

Harry opens his mouth to say something. Anything. He’s not sure what. To say no, or to tell Zayn to piss off or to say yes yes yes okay yes but he doesn’t have a chance to say anything, because Zayn kisses him. 

 ***

It’s bruising and desperate and messy and they don’t speak, mostly. Zayn nearly cries out at one point  and Harry presses a hand over his mouth to quiet him down, feels Zayn bite down on the flesh of his palm, hard and vicious. Harry isn’t sure what he’s doing, hasn’t let anyone in this way before. There’s a moment—when Zayn’s mouth is pressed to his neck and Harry is thrusting into his hand—when Harry feels like he might be losing himself. Like he’s coming apart at the seams and pieces of him are escaping. Like Zayn’s taking up residency in the empty spaces. In the deepest parts of him. It drives him crazy, that Zayn can open him up like this. That Zayn has always been his first. That he’s always taken from Harry and left him wanting. He wishes he take something from Zayn. Just once. 

“I hate you so much.” He whispers it, just before he comes, and it sounds like “I love you” and Zayn says “I know,” and then it’s finished, as quickly as it started. 

Zayn pulls back and then settles into Harry’s side, carefully, pressing his lips to Harry’s cheek, his jaw, the top of his shoulder. His breathing is quick, and Harry can feel his heartbeat. He speaks into Harry’s hair.

“I knew it. I knew it would be different.”

Harry doesn’t respond. It’s such a stupid thing to say. It’s so unnecessary. Of course it’s different. He looks up at the ceiling. Feels tears pooling at the corner of his eye. Zayn props himself up on one arm and looks down at Harry, his eyes shining in the dark like he’s searching for something in Harry’s face.

“You felt it, right? It’s not like that, with them. It’s not the same. I know you felt it, Harry.”

 _Them_. The word hits Harry in his center, deep inside him. He’s disgusted with himself, suddenly. He feels dirty. Because it’s so clear now. Maybe it was clear the moment Zayn walked in. Maybe Harry’s the one who’s blind. 

_Them._

He thinks of Perrie, bright and good and beautiful and deserving. He thinks of Niall, who’s never been anything but patient with him, even when he doesn’t deserve it— _feel like I need to be a bloody mind reader with you sometimes, Harry_ —who pulls him up when he’s down and settles him when he’s lost control and has never pushed. Never lied. Never betrayed Harry’s trust. Who loves Harry, and doesn’t flinch when he says it like it’s something he wants to push away. Something that burns him. Niall, who he’s never really let in. Who Zayn’s maybe just taken away. 

Then there’s Zayn. And there’s Harry. There’s the two of them. 

Harry understands now that this was never a time out. That there’s no such thing as neutral ground. 

“Harry?” His voice sounds a little choked. A little desperate. “I love you, okay? I need you to say it. I just need to hear you say it before you go.”

Harry shuts his eyes. _I love you_. He turns it over in his mind. Tries to wring the significance out of those words. Tries to feel their gravity. But maybe he’s heard Zayn say it too many times. How is this any different? Zayn says it again, into the dark. Presses it into the curve of Harry’s chest with his fingertips, and Harry understands that “I love you” can mean a lot of things. It can mean “goodbye” and it can mean “don’t go” and it can mean “we’re doomed” and it can mean “you win” and a thousand other things, you just have to offer it. But Harry feels tired and weak and like Zayn’s already taken so much from him, like he’s won enough already. So he just turns his head away. 

“I think you’re right.”

“What?”

“I think you’re never going to see me again.”

 

* * *

 

**Now**

 

They collect their things quietly, then compare boarding passes. Zayn’s seat is near the back and Harry’s is nearly all the way in front. He feels relieved. Feels his body beginning to relax. They hug awkwardly and say their goodbyes and their “I’ll see you on the plane”s and Zayn turns to go. He only makes it a few steps before something stirs in Harry. Something compulsive and undefined.

"Hey wait."

Zayn stops and half turns, adjusting his bag on his shoulder.

"Yeah?"

"I'm glad." Harry wrinkles his nose. It sounds so trite. So inadequate. He wants to say a hundred things like _i'm sorry_ and _you were right_ and  _i was scared_ but it's too late now. They're so much older and Zayn is so far from him--nearly a stranger now--and none of it would mean anything, would it? So he just says, "I'm glad I got to see you."

Zayn looks a little bemused. Then he says "yeah. Me too."  

He turns and keeps moving. Harry watches him disappear through the door then pulls out his phone. Dials Nick’s number. 

“Hello. Is it happening?”

He walks to the window and watches the plane outside. Presses his face to the glass. 

“Yeah. We’re boarding now.”

“Thank god.”

“Yeah. I’m just…I’m knackered. It’s been a long week.”

“Was it good though? To see Perrie again?”

“Yeah. It was lovely.”

“And was _He_ there? Your great nemesis?”

Harry shuts his eyes. He feels a headache coming on. 

“Yeah. Yeah, he was there.”

“Was it explosive? Was there a great duel? Who vanquished whom?”

Harry considers it for a moment. He feels the reality of Zayn receding, settling back into his mind. Giving way to the _idea_ of Zayn. The Zayn that Harry carries with him everywhere he goes. The Zayn that lurks in the dark of crowded bars and in the corner of his room when he’s alone at night and in the curve of a lover’s lips when or the way they push their hair back off their brow. He’s older now, this Zayn. Softer. Dimmer. Less maddening. His presence less of an indictment.

“Dunno. I think maybe we just…decided not to play the game. Decided to forfeit.”

“Oh.”

“Yeah.”

“Well that all sounds very mature. And very boring.”

“Maybe.”

Nick’s voice turns softer, less facetious.

“I’m glad, Harry. I’m glad it was okay.”

“Me too.”

“Now come home, yeah?”

“Yeah.” He presses himself up and away from the window and tugs at the strap on his shoulder. “Alright.”

He hangs up and pockets his phone, hands his boarding pass to the woman at the counter, then walks through the gate. 

**Author's Note:**

> Thank you thank you thank you to J and G, who read over this and caught mistakes and dove right into this swimming pool of angst feelings with me. J, THANK YOU SO MUCH FOR THE MIX YOU ARE THE BEST AND I'M SO SORRY.


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